Tentative Hatred
by mutedneon
Summary: - - Miracle Mask spoilers - - While taking up residence at Reunion Inn, things can be a bit rocky between Randall and Descole - who, reluctantly, have to stay in the same suite. Inspired by that one special episode in MM where Randall and Descole are just kinda. Casually chilling in their hotel room.


**"** You almost gave away your identity."

The scientist lambasted, sneering with malice that I'd only ever seen displayed by villains on silly movies. What a warm welcome.

"I did not." I sneered back with a mocking roll of the eyes, boring my gaze into his skull with a cold glare. "I was just making my intentions clear – how could that possibly give away my identity?"

I walked out of the doorway and nearly slammed the door behind me, shoulders arched and muscles tense. I had personally been pretty proud of tonight's performance. But this Jean fellow was such a perfectionist in every way he must've thought the impressive feat was filled with holes and fatal mistakes.

Such a perfectionist that it made me _hate_ him.

Sure, he had set this whole plan into motion, and I felt forever indebted towards him for sending the letters that were the catalyst for my returning memories. But he was just so smug and sure of himself, and so against the idea of me 'messing up' his plan in even the smallest of ways that I felt like he was controlling me more than assisting me.

I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of his sly, unforgiving voice that just radiated an intimidating aura. "Yes, but making your intentions clear to the one person who might already be suspecting _you_ as the person behind the mask. 'Take back what's yours'? Really, Ascot? You might as well have just taken off the mask and thrown it at Mr. Ledore."

He spoke with an unwelcome snarkiness that I had rarely heard seep from his voice before now.

I snorted some curses under my breath before shouldering over to the couch where Jean was taking up residence – he was idly reading a book when not looking up from it to speak to me, absentmindedly changing the channel of the television whenever an ad that was too loud came on so that he could concentrate.

I knew not to argue with the man; though he was usually levelheaded and collected, he had a temper I would even dare to compare to my own. A confrontation only a night or two ago had ended with me curled up on the floor from a painful kick to the stomach and Mr. Descole locking himself in the bathroom for three hours.

I sat on the cushion next to the masked man and he immediately pressed himself against the arm of the couch, trying to make as much distance between us as possible.

"I'm here to help you, Ascot, _not_ make friends. Is that clear?"

I scoffed and gave him an offended look, but he paid me no mind and continued reading.

"Look, old man." I drawled, my voice low and airy. Obviously he took notice of my unpleasant tone and looked up at me. I couldn't read his face because of his mask, and the facelessness of this man was uncanny, but I continued despite this. "I'm not here to make friends either. I'm here for my revenge, and you're just here to help me out with that. This whole thing has already been enacted. I can handle things from here." I smirked. It felt good to be the one talking down for once. "If you don't lighten up a bit, there's nobody saying I can't kick you out of this hotel room and leave you to be caught by the inspectors."

Descole must've surmised that I wasn't joking around anymore, as he looked almost fuming.

Surprisingly, though, it weren't my threats to kick him out that got him.

"Old man!?" He snarled through his teeth, contorting his face into a somewhat odd expression. He was trying too hard to seem threatening. "I'll have you know, I'm no more than three years older than you, sir!"

And all of the sudden, Jean felt a lot less scary.

"Take it easy", I intoned, acting so calmly just to spite him. "Once you reach forty, I definitely wouldn't be calling you a spring chicken anymore."

He growled like some kind of animal, and I had to stifle my laughs.

"I'm thirty eight!" He snorted, and I couldn't help but bust a gut laughing at how seriously he was taking all of this.

After an uncomfortable moment of Jean glaring at me, and me trying to quiet my giggles, I wiped the beginnings of tears from my eyes and gave him a sheepish look. "You're quite the joker, Mr. Descole!"

Jean tensed up, "I wouldn't be talking, Ascot; you must be trying to evoke a laugh from me with a hairstyle like that!" He riposted, and I defensively ran my fingers through my hair.

"I'll have you know it takes me an hour each morning to style it like this!" I spat, and Jean sniggered.

"Ah, so that explains why it's practically made of knots, eh?" he rebuked sarcastically, and I desperately changed the subject to an upcoming dark miracle.

Mr. Jean Descole was a horrible, horrible person to live with, especially in such a small hotel room – and chances were, he thought the same of me.

Hopefully finally getting everything that was rightfully mine back would make all of this insufferable nonsense worth it. But right now, as we were both still madly blushing from embarrassment and laughter, it really didn't seem like that was possible.


End file.
